“Why don't I take the girls off your hands for a few hours?” I suggest.
“What does that mean?” one of the husbands asks, looking a bit nervous.
“Just a little girl time,” I say, nice as spice.
The horror on those men’s faces nearly makes me cackle. You’d think I just told them that I was taking their women to go join an orgy circus.
“We won’t get up to anything too crazy. Promise."
Their strained expressions and murmured complaints confirm my suspicions. They’d rather have their wives at home, barefoot in the kitchen, slaving around the house to prepare for their eventual triumphant returns.
Maybe some other time. I have plans for these girls today.
“Um…I don’t know if that’s a good—”
“I promise. I’ll get them all returned safely in time for dinner,” I say.
Though I can’t promise they’ll have time tocooksaid dinner. But I’m pretty sure these men can afford to order a pizza for once.
Lincoln squeezes my hand and gazes up at me. Then he smirks over at his associates. “They’ll be fine,” he tells them. “They’re in good hands with Jules.”
The men reluctantly agree to let their wives hang out with me, and suddenly I can hardly contain myself.
I fire off a quick text message to Alba, hoping she’s available for some spur-of-the-moment fun.
Me: Calling an emergency meeting of the girls. Your house. I’m bringing tequila and a bunch of pretty strangers. ETA 30 minutes.
My bestie responds in no time.
Alba: Let’s do this. I’m rounding up the girls.
I grin as I usher my new friends out of the restaurant. Oh, yeah. We’re about to let loose.
38
JULES
My new friends and I pile into a taxi, and I make quick work of coordinating a grocery delivery to Alba’s house. You can’t entertain a bunch of guests without snacks.
Minutes later, Tammy swings open Alba’s front door with a bottle opener and a smile. “Hello there, ladies,” she says, crinkled eyes alight with mischief as always. She ushers us inside.
“In here!” Alba’s voice travels from the kitchen where we find her organizing a quick cheese board.
Her mom, Patty waves at us from where she’s slicing celery and carrot sticks. Monica is here, too, skewering cherry tomatoes and cheese onto thin wooden sticks. I give my mother-in-law a quick hug. Laney shows up right then, carrying a fruit plate she picked up on the way over.
The doorbell rings again and I run off to answer it. When I swing the door open, a ball of emotion shoots into my throat. “Mom!”
I throw myself into my mother’s arms. On a whim, I’d texted and invited her to join us when I was in the taxi on the way over. I didn’t think she’d actually come.
“This was a bit last minute but I picked up some supermarket cupcakes. Is that okay?” She looks doubtful.
“Of course it’s okay.” I virtually pull her into the kitchen.
Carol and her friends stand around, still stiff and quiet as they sip the alcohol Alba pours for us all. But by the time we transfer our feast to the living room, it’s time to get down to business.
I slip off my heels—yes, I actually wore real adult shoes today—and plug my phone into Alba’s speakers. 90s rock music pours out into the room.
Then I proceed toreallyget these women drunk.
